


if somebody’s there, then tell me who.

by kryptidfox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Sex, Animated GIFs, Art, Bars and Pubs, Digital Art, Domestic Fluff, Draco is a little shit, Drinking, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Living Together, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Oblivious Harry Potter, One Shot, POV Harry Potter, Pining, RST, Roommates, Sharing Clothes, Their friends take the piss, Voyeurism, harry is tired, idiots to lovers, matching mugs!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptidfox/pseuds/kryptidfox
Summary: Harry and Malfoy have been friends for five years, housemates for four, and yet Harry has never heard Malfoy say his first name—until he does, accompanied by a variety of other noises. Harry only wishes it wasn’t through the paper thin walls of Grimmauld on another night Malfoy spends with some other bloke.Or, Harry struggles with his sanity overhearing Malfoy’s nights with nameless blokes and loses it completely when one night the bloke’s got a name—and it’s Harry’s.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 227





	if somebody’s there, then tell me who.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was only supposed to be 5k when it first started out as an idea about Harry overhearing Draco sleeping with someone sharing his name, but somehow it spiraled into 11k words. I never thought I'd be able to write this much, especially for my first real dive into writing fan fiction, but three weeks and many 2 am writing sessions later, I'm so excited and proud to be able to share it.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my lovely betas thestarryknight and uphorie!
> 
> The title is from Hozier's cover of Say My Name, which you can listen to on the [mini playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1h2ufmjupjdcKLTPpayjy8?si=xKOlm9VUQ9uon_E7EQaZPA) for this fic.

Harry steps out of his bedroom and directly into a dripping Draco Malfoy. Bare chested, a towel rides low on Malfoy’s hips. With his head tipped to one side, Malfoy massages another towel through his wet hair. Rivulets of water trail down his abdomen and Harry can’t quite look away. A small puddle is starting to form on the wooden slats of the hallway.

“Potter,” he says, waking Harry up from his daze. “Is there a reason you’re standing in the middle of the hallway? I need to get ready for the party.” When Harry pulls his gaze up, Malfoy is looking at him with an eyebrow raised and a faint tug to his lips.

“Oh, uh, yeah, no. Go ahead,” Harry manages to get out, stepping to the side to let him pass. Malfoy’s bare arm brushes lightly against his as he passes and Harry can feel goosebumps rising on his skin in his wake.

Malfoy snorts. “Graced to have your permission.” He reaches his room and he calls out from inside, “and don’t forget to pick up some of those muggle snacks I like. You know, the crunchy ones.”

“Crisps,” Harry mutters under his breath, then swears. The guests are going to arrive in an hour, and he definitely forgot that he still needs to drop by Tesco. Harry can at least rely on Malfoy to remind him. He’s somehow always keenly aware of when something’s escaped Harry’s mind. In all honesty, Harry wouldn’t know what he’d do without Malfoy’s list on the fridge to keep his life in check.

Officially, it was a spare bit of parchment with Things For Potter Not To Forget written at the top, in all capitals and underlined, that was spelled to update with weekly reminders. Malfoy had proposed the list a year into living with each other, after a few too many times he’d been the only thing keeping Harry from missing an important date. It started as a way to keep Harry grounded during the hazy period immediately after the war, when his grief was so consuming that he’d been unable to tell each day from the next. At first, it kept track of upcoming ministry events, Molly’s birthday, and the anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts.

Though, as the years went on and they both slowly healed, it had become more of a way for Malfoy to pester him about whose turn it is to pick up the groceries and who’s winning in their ongoing Seeker’s game. Now, the list is pinned on the fridge under the matching Holyhead Harpies magnets that Ginny gifted them two Christmases ago. Harry passes it as he enters the kitchen to look for his wallet. It reads:

**THINGS FOR POTTER NOT TO FORGET**

Grocery run this week: Malfoy

Seeker Game Wins: Potter 30 / Malfoy 31 (suck it)

Ginny was here

Potter, you left your wallet on the table. Again.

Potter! Pick up snacks for The Party!

Harry grabs his wallet from the kitchen table, but pauses at the list. He taps his wand on it once, adding _‘Malfoy, stop leaving puddles in the hallway (prat)’_ to the list before Apparating away, satisfied.

Strolling through the snack aisle in Tesco, Harry packs his trolley full of the crisps he knows Malfoy likes and a few extras for the party just for good measure. He’s still undecided about whether he is baffled or amused by Malfoy’s insistence on pretending he has no idea what crisps are. When he first introduced them to Malfoy, during eighth year, they had sat on the floor of the common room, passing between them the bag and their stories in turn. For Malfoy, it was his father, sixth year, and the Dark Lord. And for Harry: the Dursleys, Sirius, and the Forbidden Forest.

It is like him, though, Harry supposes, to act as though nothing has changed at all. As though he doesn’t usually join Harry at Tesco to pick out his favourite crisps himself or as though they don’t tell each other things they have never told another soul.

Nevertheless, they left eighth year irrevocably changed. Friends, unbelievably. Housemates, even, after Harry asked him to move in when they had graduated, unwilling and unable to stay in Grimmauld alone. Malfoy accepted and with the wounds of the war still raw between them, stayed close as he settled into the room beside Harry’s.

He is, however, still completely unbearable to live with.

After living with him for four years, Harry can admit that Malfoy is not a bad housemate by any means. He keeps their shared spaces orderly, doesn’t spend too long getting ready in the loo in the morning, and is not as much of a git as Harry knows he could be about Harry always managing to leave his socks everywhere. He’s still a git about other things though, of course.

But no, none of those things are what makes living with Malfoy unbearable. He’d be able to manage just fine, thank you, if only Harry didn’t have to suffer with hearing him. When Malfoy chose the bedroom right next to his, Harry didn’t know that the wall separating the two was so thin. Or that he’d be able to hear exactly what Malfoy was getting up to. By the time Harry did realize, it was several years too late to ask him to switch rooms.

It’s happened a few times over the course of the past few weeks. Every Saturday, when Malfoy goes out, he brings home some bloke. They always have what seems to be the loudest sex possible in the middle of the night. Usually, Harry can do nothing more than try to smother himself to sleep with his pillow, blocking out the noises and the uncomfortable feelings they incite. He is always left restless.

As he most likely will be again tonight, but for other reasons. Tonight, Harry has a party to get to and friends to relax with. He thinks he could do with a night spent drinking and laughing and not having to hear Malfoy doing unspeakable things at unforgivable hours. Harry pushes his trolley to the register, passing the teller a handful of notes and grabbing the bag of snacks. He steps past the sliding doors and into the biting July heat.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

When Harry returns to Grimmauld, Malfoy is waiting in the living room, a glass of red wine in hand. He’s lounging on the sofa, an arm propped on the back with his legs sprawled out in front of him. Harry is grateful to see he’s dressed this time, but doesn’t think he’s spared much since Malfoy’s wearing a silky black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a triangular expanse of skin which is strikingly bright against the dark fabric. To top it off, the shirt is tucked into what has to be the tightest jeans in existence. Harry almost drops the bag of crisps.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Malfoy says, mildly. “Put those away and pass me my snacks, would you.”

Harry is somehow able to get himself to walk away to the kitchen where he places the snacks onto the table next to what seems to be the entirety of Grimmauld’s alcohol stores. He grabs a bag of crisps and throws it at Malfoy.

“Ah, the prodigal Saviour returns. And bearing gifts!” Malfoy exclaims, catching the bag with a Seeker’s grace. “It would be unbecoming to be late to your own party, Potter. Whatever would your friends say?” Harry settles down on the sofa beside him and Malfoy easily drapes his legs over Harry’s. Warmth seeps through Malfoy’s jeans and into Harry’s bones like honey.

“They’ve been your friends for a while now too,” Harry snorts. “Besides, you invited Pansy and Blaise. So if anything, it’s your party.”

Malfoy scoffs, “You outnumber us Slytherins by _three_ , which makes it duly out of my jurisdiction.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Pansy is at least worth four in gossip alone.” At that, Malfoy laughs and tips his glass in acquiescence.

“Well, we can’t trust you gaggle of Gryffindors to be worthwhile entertainment, can we?” He smirks and eats a crisp. Harry tries not to follow the movement, but fails with a quick glance at Malfoy’s lips. He looks away and bites the inside of his cheek to contain an endeared smile. Trust Malfoy to be the kind of person to eat two-pound crisps with a glass of wine.

“Yeah, perhaps you can entertain us by getting drunk and dancing on the counters again.” Harry grins, and Malfoy throws a crisp at him.

It’s finally 8pm when the Floo lights up in a roar of green sparks. The first of the guests to arrive are almost always Ron and Hermione, doubtlessly due to Hermione’s unwavering punctuality, Harry thinks fondly.

Harry gratefully takes the excuse to get up from the sofa, gently dropping Malfoy’s legs off his lap as he goes to greet them. “Hey, Ron, ‘Mione.” He hugs her and leans back to grin at Ron.

“Hi, Harry.” Hermione smiles as she pulls away. “Evening, Draco. Thank you for having us.”

“Good evening, Hermione. Ron.” Malfoy nods at each.

Ron pulls a face before laughing and throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulder, slapping his back in greeting. “You know, ferret, mate, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. Although, you do still call Harry ‘ _Potter_ ,’” he snorts, but looks thoughtful. “Bloody consistent, you lot are, when it comes to each other.”

“We’ve been doing it so long, it would be weird to change it up now,” Harry says, flapping his hand in the air as though to swat away the fluttering in his stomach.

“Too right, Potter.” Malfoy catches his eye over his twinkling glass of wine before taking a swig. The pale stretch of his throat works as he swallows. Harry quickly looks away.

Malfoy has never said his name before. It’s still Potter and Malfoy, five years after the war. Their tentative and gradual friendship in eighth year did nothing to change that, only softening the edges of Malfoy’s ‘Potter’ into something no less sharp, but less pointedly lethal as their dynamic eases into one more playful in its jabs than harmful. 

Though, Harry has no doubt that Malfoy will always be sharp, jagged edges. Elegantly deadly, like slivers of shattered crystal. But if Harry’s enmity and then his friendship with Malfoy indicates anything, it’s that regardless, Harry is all too willing to be cut. Preferably on the glint edge of Malfoy’s cheekbones.

Harry tries to imagine what the shape of his name would be like in Malfoy’s lazy drawl, but the sound of others arriving through the floo draws him from his thoughts. Malfoy goes to greet them, and leads Ginny and Neville off to where the drinks are kept with a dramatic whirl that has Harry’s eyes trailing his back.

“Harry,” Luna says, approaching him in a silver sequined dress that glimmers with each step. “It seems the moon frogs are plaguing you especially this season. Have you been having difficulties with concentration as of late?”

Ginny comes up to them with a colourful drink in hand. “Oh yeah, Harry. You do seem awfully _distracted_ recently.”

Harry makes to protest, but Luna only nods sagely. “I have an amazing peppermint and eucalyptus oil for that, you know. If you come by the shop sometime, I’d be happy to give you some. It’d be best if you could share it with Draco as well.”

Ginny is grinning. “It’d probably be best if he helped apply it too, huh?”

Harry doesn’t deign to give that a response. He’s more focused on the fact that he isn’t entirely certain that distraction is his problem. It’s probably more a matter of sleep deprivation, if anything. And most likely not an issue that would be fixed with any sort of oil, he thinks wryly, but he’s grateful anyway.

“Thank you, Luna, I’ll be sure to visit soon,” he promises, resolving to drop by her quaint shop on Diagon by the end of the week.

“Draco! You _slag_!” Pansy suddenly shrieks, stepping out of the Floo and effectively diverting the entire room’s attention. “You didn’t say you hooked up with Antonio from Transportation! _Tell me all about it._ ” She makes a beeline to where Malfoy is standing without a backward glance at anyone else.

Blaise follows calmly behind her, flashing an easy, blinding smile. “Good luck with that one, old bean. She was nearly apoplectic the last time you withheld all the illicit details of your latest assignation.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry can see Malfoy being accosted by the two, while valiantly attempting to palm off a cocktail to Pansy to avoid answering. His efforts appear to be in vain. Neville and Blaise are trying not to laugh at him and are failing at it. Harry catches snippets of their conversation and frowns. Luna and Ginny look in turn and share a glance with each other. Harry pretends not to notice.

“Well. Sounds like Draco’s been having some fun lately.” Ron chuckles.

The exact sounds of Malfoy having fun immediately races through his head. “Yes, and he’s been doing so quite _loudly_.” Harry mutters, unable to help himself.

Ron doesn’t seem to hear him, but Ginny does. “I reckon you might be needing something a little stronger than an oil massage, Harry,” she chimes in, handing Harry her drink. Harry obediently downs it in one go.

Ron barely has his mouth open before Hermione deftly cuts him off, “Harry, you never mentioned, how did it go with Susan?”

Harry does not want to talk about his unfortunate date from earlier in the week. She’d been perfectly decent throughout their dinner, making polite conversation and showing just the right amount of interest in Harry. By the end of the night, however, Harry got a small smile and a kiss on the cheek. He went home alone, only to return to the noises that plagued him from next door seemingly louder than usual and his sleep particularly restless.

“It was fine.”

The look that Hermione gives him is not one he wants to analyze right now, and the feelings that incite from the topic of who Malfoy is shagging and who Harry isn’t are entirely too much for his brain to unpack. Harry decides to help it along by getting utterly bladdered.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

Harry is hungover. His head hurts and his neck has got a crick in it from the unfortunate sprawl he’d landed in when he passed out on his bed last night, but at least he’s gotten a decent amount of sleep. More than he can say he’s had for a certain number of nights. A certain number of nights that may or may not have been partly responsible for the sheer quantity of drinks he ended up having and perhaps even that round of exploding beer pong or two. He thinks one of his eyebrows might still be singed. It’s confirmed when he enters the loo but he easily fixes it with a simple charm after he’s showered and dressed.

When Harry heads downstairs, he finds Malfoy already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the tea cabinet door hanging open above him precariously close to his head. The days when Malfoy is up before Harry, Malfoy likes to brew them both a morning cuppa. He’s already finished his, the magical dragon mug, that Harry gave him for his birthday, sitting empty beside Harry’s favourite antler mug on the counter. The little dragon on the ceramic is asleep, puffing out small clouds of smoke into the starry sky above him.

Figuring at least one of them should be spared a headache this morning, Harry leans in and closes the cabinet door, placing a light hand on Malfoy’s head as he ducks. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to lose any more brain cells.” Malfoy’s hair is as silky as it looks, he notices before he pulls his hand away.

Malfoy looks away and huffs. Harry is reminded of the little dragon. “Potter, I’ll kindly ask you to not mess up my hair, thank you. We already have a resident bird’s nest.” He fixes his hair gingerly, a faint flush on his cheeks that Harry blames on the tea.

Harry just chuckles lightly as he mimics Malfoy’s lean against the kitchen table across from the counter.

“Heading out today, then?” Malfoy asks, levitating Harry’s steaming mug over to him and taking Harry in with a slow once-over.

Harry has to resist the urge to cross his arms or fiddle with the hem of his shirt at the scrutiny. “Yeah, just dropping by Luna’s shop to pick something up.”

Malfoy perks up at that. “Well, in that case, do you mind picking up my usual order for me? Luna knows which one. That’d be splendid, ta everso. I’ve gotta go meet the others at The Pavilion in thirty minutes or Pansy will have my arse, because Merlin forbid brunch starts later than 10 am.” He rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Have fun at your Gay Brunch!” Harry calls out to his retreating form.

Malfoy only raises two fingers without turning, and smoothly replies, “Ha ha, make fun. But _honestly_ , Potter.” His eyes flick back towards Harry one last time over his shoulder. “If it’s ‘Gay Brunch,’ you should technically be joining us.” With the last word, his rude gesture morphs into his characteristic finger-wagging farewell as he leaves.

When he’s gone, Harry takes both mugs and sits down to drink his morning tea. Malfoy has made it warm and sweet and perfect, just how he likes it. He can’t help but feel it in his chest too, a pleasant feeling that has him sitting at the table and looking at the little dragon on Malfoy’s mug for far longer than he was planning to. Malfoy’s parting words linger. 

Later, Harry gets up and heads out to Luna’s. He leaves the mugs sitting together on the table.

It’s a bright and busy day on Diagon Alley. The inviting summer weather easily attracts the Saturday wizarding crowd. Harry can already see a steady stream of families and couples strolling about as he makes his way to Luna’s shop. Lovegood Natural Living specializes in magical and natural wellness, elegantly blending wizard and Muggle practices in its wares. Luna and Neville teamed up for it after eighth year, with Luna maintaining the shop aspect of the business and Neville sourcing the magical plants. It’s become quite popular since the war ended, after wizarding society started to accept more of Muggle culture into its own.

A small tinkling bell announces Harry’s arrival and he tries not to wince, the sound too harsh for his aching head. The shop has quite a few witches and wizards browsing around, but Luna is alone at the counter with one of her shop assistants helping the customers.

“Harry, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” Luna beams as she sees him walk in.

He smiles back and lifts a hand in greeting. “I figured I should visit before the weekend’s done, and Malfoy ended up having me pick up his stuff, anyway.” Luna’s eyes widen slightly, but a private little smile remains.

“Well, I’m glad to see you. I have Draco’s stuff right here with yours.” She says, grabbing something from underneath the counter. She brings out two glass bottles of shimmering liquid, labelled only with Harry and Malfoy’s names, and proceeds to package it diligently with brown kraft paper and golden twine.

“Er.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t also have something for a hangover, would you?”

“Oh, of course, Harry.” She passes the package across the counter. “It’s just in the back. I can get it for you in a sec.”

“Thanks, Luna.” Harry is grateful, taking the carefully wrapped package and putting down a few galleons in return.

“I really do hope it helps, Harry,” Luna says, seriously. “But please remember it’s external use only.”

He grins at her cheekily. “It’s alright, I won’t drink any.”

Ginny enters the shop from through the door leading upstairs to her and Luna’s flat. She looks almost as hungover as Harry feels. “Please, let’s not bring up drinking for another week at the very least.” She kisses Luna’s cheek. “Good morning, _ma lune_. Have you got any of your hangover stuff?”

“Yes, love.” Luna smiles. “I’ll get you some from the back too while I go get Harry’s. Keep him company while I’m gone.”

As Luna heads to the back, Ginny turns to Harry and looks at the package in his hands with two eyebrows raised. “Picking up Malfoy’s stuff now, huh?”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “He’s off on his Gay Brunch today.”

“Ah, yes,” Ginny replies slowly in understanding. “With Pansy, Astoria, and Blaise. Luna and I have been a few times. Frilly drinks on the patio. A right queer English breakfast. You’ve never gone?”

Harry scrunches up his face. “They always go clubbing later in the day. You know I’m not keen on crowds. Or dancing.” His mind flashes to an image of Malfoy under pulsing neon lights, sweat-sheened and smiling as he leans back into a faceless bloke. He quickly wills it away, but an unpleasant feeling remains.

“Oh, right. Is that where he finds his _fun_ then?” Ginny asks, a shrewd expression on her face. Harry doesn’t like it. He makes sure to groan his displeasure.

“Yeah, yeah, have a right laugh about it,” he grumbles. “It's not as though it’s driving me bloody mental or anything.”

Ginny has a right laugh about it. “Is it that bad?” She manages to get out, in between her giggles.

The past few instances immediately come to mind. He’s spent quite a few nights now lying awake in his bed. The variety of noises next door always keeps him up. Moans, and groans, and what has to be the incessant creaking of Malfoy’s bed, courtesy of Grimmauld’s aged furniture. Harry remembers the flood of embarrassment and then the bite of frustration that had him cursing Malfoy until morning light. He tries to think of a way to convey just how much it affects him, but can’t seem to put it in words.

Harry rubs his face, tiredly. “It’s just that—he’s so _loud_. I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep on a Saturday for weeks. Even hungover is better than sleep deprived.”

It’s then that Luna returns from the back, catching the tail end of their conversation. “I can’t do much about Draco, but this should at least help with the headache, Harry.” She passes him a vial and gives the other one to Ginny. He throws it back quickly, bracing for the sour taste.

Harry is surprised. “Oh, that’s a lot better than I remember.”

“Isn’t it?” Luna says, pleased. “Draco helped me improve on the standard Hangover Potion.”

“Well, cheers to that.” Ginny raises the vial and downs it. “Tell him thanks for me, Harry. Maybe after you talk to him about his little exhibitionist problem.”

Harry wants to be annoyed about it again, but ends up amused instead. “You’re a menace, Weasley. Good luck with your match tomorrow.”

She only laughs, raising a hand to playfully salute him. “Thanks, coach.”

“Luna, thanks again for the—” Harry gestures vaguely to the package in his hands.

Luna nods serenely. “Of course, Harry. You’re always welcome to come by for some more. And do let us know how your talk with Draco goes.”

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

Later that night, Harry considers looking for Malfoy to give him his order from Luna’s and possibly to discuss his volume control. As it happens though, when he actually gathers the nerve, Malfoy is already holed up in his room. Harry isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Instead, he leaves the glass bottle labelled with Malfoy’s name beside all of his other care products in their shared loo while he goes to brush his teeth.

Harry is just about ready for bed, when it happens again. It almost comes as a surprise because Harry was so preoccupied with not seeing Malfoy that he had forgotten what that usually meant. You’d think he’d be used to the routine by now, Harry muses, as a moan sounds through the wall. Harry turns his head towards the ceiling and closes his eyes, sighing sharply through his nose. He tries to gather his strength, knowing he’ll be needing it again tonight.

Surely, if he just keeps his eyes closed and pretends like he’s somewhere else, pretty soon he’ll have to start drifting away. He focuses on warm, summer winds and rolling pastures flitting fast below him. A memory from July, trying out his new broom. He remembers the calm joy of flying and tries to hold on to it, tries to let it lull him to sleep. But then Malfoy is moaning again, and suddenly his thoughts are hurtling to black silk shirts with the collar unbuttoned and unbuttoning, _slowly unbuttoning_ , to expose more pale swathes of skin. He can just imagine how smooth Malfoy’s skin would be under his palms.

Harry’s eyes flash open. All at once he feels fervent, heat rushing through him as though he’s been in a quidditch match for hours rather than just thinking of Malfoy for a mere moment. It’s exhilarating and alarming in equal measure.

Unbidden arousal rises and for a brief instant, Harry considers giving into it. To simply allow himself to paint a picture in his head to go along with the sounds. To imagine Malfoy with his head tipped, mouth parted on a moan. Malfoy, rocking his hips back and forth. Malfoy, eyes glazed and wanting. Malfoy.

Groaning, Harry pushes a hand to his tight pyjama bottoms. He’s so hard he thinks he might die. Perhaps he could, he thinks to himself. It would be easy enough. Slip a hand inside his pants. Stroke himself while listening to Malfoy getting off next door. Harry grimaces. This must be Malfoy’s specific brand of torture. Did the git not know how to cast a silencing spell? Or was his Muffliato just shit? Because surely Malfoy must know how loud he’s being. Surely, he wouldn’t want to be heard. Especially not by Harry, of all people. _Surely?_

Harry could not know the answer to that. Not unless he asks, and the mere thought of that has Harry rushing to think of anything else. Sharp, rhythmic creaks puncture through his embarrassment like a knife. No, Harry withdraws his hands from his pyjamas, he doesn’t want to get off to his (potentially unaware) best friend’s moans like a sneak. What he wants is Malfoy cognizant and receptive. The reality of the situation hits him hard. He is lying alone in his bed and Malfoy is very much not alone in his. It’s like being doused by a bucket of ice water.

Grabbing the ends of his pillow, Harry cocoons his head inside and around his ears until the sounds are muffled and indiscernible. But once again, he barely sleeps a wink.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

It is far too early in the morning to be plagued by Draco Malfoy, Harry thinks, as he is up and out of bed before the sun has even risen. Harry doesn’t even bother to stop by the loo on his way downstairs. He’s almost entirely certain that if he were to look at his reflection now, he’d find only dead eyes and dark circles looking back.

Bloody Malfoy, keeping him up all night. Who even is _that_ loud? What could he possibly be doing that would warrant those levels of volume? And could he kindly _stop it, please_ —for Harry’s sanity’s sake. And his sleep schedule’s sake. _A downright insufferable prat is what Malfoy is,_ Harry is still ranting in his head as he pads wearily to the kitchen and towards the fridge. _Absolutely no regard for any housemate consideration._ He grabs the carton of eggs from the top shelf. _Or any sort of filter for his noise level_. He closes the fridge door and turns.

Harry almost drops the eggs. There, sitting silently at the kitchen table as though the world is his oyster, is the bloke that must be partly responsible for last night’s lack of sleep.

“Uh,” Harry starts, unsure how to proceed. “Hi?”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment.

Not able to stand it anymore, Harry breaks the silence first. “So… How do you like your eggs?”

And that is how Harry ends up cooking breakfast for Malfoy’s latest hookup, who still hasn’t even introduced himself much beyond, “Over hard, mate, thanks”. (In which case, who bloody likes their eggs over hard?) Well. There’s certainly no accounting for taste—in eggs or blokes, he supposes, taking in the brunette man casually sitting at the table as he cooks. He’s not all that bad looking, really, Harry admits grudgingly, but he also isn’t anything special, either. Harry shakes his head and turns back to the stove, flipping the eggs in the air with ease. They land back on the skillet with a sizzle and Harry just takes it all in for a second. This is his life now. The Saviour of the Wizarding World, reduced to feeding his ex-rival’s paramours with overdone eggs. He sighs.

When Harry turns to slide the finished plate of eggs onto the table, he finds Malfoy perched primly on the opposite side of the nameless bloke, not looking up from the issue of Witch Weekly spread in his hands. Harry’s face stares back at him under “The Wizarding World’s Most Eligible Bachelors.” Harry frowns. _What a glaringly rude reminder of his being single,_ he thinks, glancing between the two men at the table. As though he needs any more reminders. Harry reluctantly pulls out the seat next to the bloke and sits down before he can think better of it.

No one says anything while they proceed to eat breakfast. The only thing cutting the extended silence is the strikingly loud clatter of knives and forks. It leaves room for Harry to switch back and forth between anxiously looking at the other two men and unwillingly recalling the loud sounds that Malfoy made last night. With the bloke who sits just to Harry’s right. Who made Malfoy make those sounds. Through unspeakable means.

Harry tries to act as though he can’t feel the weight of that knowledge hanging heavy in the air around the table, like a fog that threatens to suffocate them all. Malfoy, of course, is blissfully ignorant of it completely. As though if Harry were to drop dead, cruelly killed by the invisible force of awkward silence, he’d just calmly continue eating forkfuls of egg while flipping through his magazine, the bastard. It’s hard to look at him. His bottom lip shines with a spot of yolk. It’s hard to look away.

Harry takes a moment to consider that perhaps this, this uncomfortable calm before, is worse than the offensive sounds of last night. Perhaps it’s even Malfoy’s newest form of torture. Harry takes a bite of his eggs. No, last night was definitely still worse.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

Harry only lasts three days of silently brooding about the egg incident before he crumbles. It’s Wednesday’s weekly pub night that finally gives him the opportunity to explode. Ron had been eyeing him warily the entire time at work, as though he was suspicious of Harry’s silence and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He watched on Monday while Harry looked off with a frown at seemingly nothing during a meeting with the department head of Magical Games and Sports and the other Quidditch League coaches. And on Tuesday, during practice, when he paced with a frown on the quidditch pitch until he was hit by a wayward bludger. And today, when he filled out paperwork about a new player’s contract with his persevering frown—all while Harry thought of goddamn Malfoy.

It doesn’t take long at all. The other shoe drops almost immediately after Harry walks into the pub and spots Hermione and Ron sitting at a table.

“I think I’m going mental.” Harry jumps in with no preamble, pulling up a seat beside Ron before sitting down. Ron doesn’t respond, only sliding his pint over to Harry and waiting for him to continue.

“It’s Malfoy,” Harry goes on, and Hermione and Ron don't look very surprised.

“Mate, it’s always Malfoy,” Ron says after a pause.

Harry wants to disagree, turning to Hermione for support, but he finds her just as unsparing, with a look of expectation that Harry wants to find annoying.

“Is he plotting something again, then?” She asks, clearly amused.

Harry groans at the reminder that he’ll never live down sixth year. “No!” He complains. “And I’m not stalking him again, ‘Mione, I promise.” In fact, Harry had spent most of the past few days adamantly avoiding Malfoy—a feat considering they roomed right beside each other. “He’s not doing anything more nefarious than torturing me every Saturday.”

Ron’s eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know you were into that, mate.”

Harry splutters in shock. Hermione starts to pat at his back, probably worried he would choke, but the gesture is lessened slightly by her poorly stifled smile. It would serve the two of them right if he did, Harry thinks, and he glares as though he could convey it silently while still struggling through his coughs.

Laughing, Ron raises a hand to placate him. “I know, I know. I’m just taking the piss. Ginny told me after her match on Monday.”

Harry doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that they’d been discussing his Malfoy related suffering. “Should you be fraternizing with players on other teams after their games, Consultant Strategist Weasley?” He asks instead.

“I don’t know, should you be fraternizing with players on other teams _before_ their games, Coach Potter?”

Harry can’t counter that. “You and Ginny are a pain in my arse. I’m switching my favourite Weasley to Charlie again.”

Raising his arms in surrender, Ron says, “Hey, no need for that, mate, it’s Draco who’s guilty here. Wait, was it Ginny or I that was your favourite?”

Harry doesn’t reply, turning to Hermione and gesturing back at Ron. “See? This is what I mean, Hermione.”

“Oh, Harry,” she says, traces of mirth lingering, but smiling at him with genuine warmth. "You know you can tell us about anything that’s bothering you.”

“Yeah, Harry.” Ron sobers up a bit. “We’ll listen, even if it is about the ferret having horribly loud sex. Wouldn’t wish that on you—or, well, anyone, really.”

Exasperated, Harry exclaims, “I bloody well hope not. This was the second time this week! And just yesterday, not only did I have to hear everything they did the entire night, but when I got to the kitchen in the morning, Malfoy’s _friend_ was _sitting at the table_.”

Ron and Hermione wince in tandem.

Now that he’s started, though, Harry finds that he is nowhere near done. “I made him breakfast! He asked for _over hard eggs_ , Ron.” Harry casts a deadpan expression. “Who eats bloody over hard eggs?”

“A madman,” Ron agrees, nodding along.

“Have you tried asking him to be quieter?” Hermione asks.

Harry makes a face which Hermione takes as her answer. She rolls her eyes at him and huffs, fixing him with a stern look. “If this is making you as miserable as you seem, Harry, it’s worth a try. You’ve been living together for years, surely you can communicate like _adults_ , even if it is with Draco. I’d hope you two can resolve conflicts without hexing each other by now.”

He sighs, leaning his head into one hand. “I know, I know. And I’m not miserable, really. Or even angry. It’s not like I have an issue with him having people over. He lives there too, he should be comfortable.” Harry shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. “He’s just…very loud about it. Consistently loud, actually. It’s just. Really, _really annoying_.”

“Harry, then perhaps you should talk to him about it,” Hermione says firmly, but kindly. “Especially if it’s bothering you. Or at the very least, think about _why_ it’s bothering you so much.”

Thoroughly chastened, Harry nods. The idea of bringing it up with Malfoy is still mostly painful, but Hermione gives him a look like she’d know if he didn’t go through with it. Knowing her, she probably would. Sighing again, Harry drops his head onto the table. Someone is patting his back in sympathy.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

For the next few days, Harry tries to continue avoiding Malfoy. It isn’t nearly as effective this time around, however, since the prat always seems to be everywhere. In the morning, when Harry goes to take a slash, Malfoy barges in unannounced to start getting ready. He just calmly reaches for his toothbrush in their shared toothbrush holder and lines up the products he uses for his skin care routine, while Harry scrambles to keep his prick covered, spluttering mismatched words at the cool gaze regarding him in the mirror.

He’s late to work that day. His players definitely notice that he’s in a mood, enough of one that they know not to comment on it. It follows him throughout the entire day, not leaving him alone until he’s gotten back home to the source of it all. Malfoy is ever present all evening, ordering takeout and subjecting Harry to another awkward meal that he is sure only he suffers through.

They are alone for this one though, Harry is left free to watch Malfoy eat without some interrupting third party to remind him of what Malfoy gets up to with others. No, rather, Harry is reminded of it all on his own. Particularly when Malfoy seems to really enjoy his tikka masala, making sure to let out all sorts of vocal affirmations of his pleasure. Harry isn’t sure he can blame the flush he gets entirely on his vindaloo anymore.

Harry has no excuse whatsoever the next morning. He’s already in a rush, struggling to throw on his Muggle suit to get ready for the important meeting they had briefed on earlier in the week. Malfoy catches him on his way out, stepping in close to adjust Harry’s skewed tie and lay his collar down neatly.

He presses it smooth, patting Harry’s chest and chuckling softly. “Twenty-three and you still can’t tie a tie properly, Potter.”

Harry isn’t able to respond in the midst of his haste to get out the door, but he spends the meeting with his face hot, thinking about the way Malfoy’s fingers brushed the nape of his neck.

He can’t respond when he finds Malfoy later in the afternoon, lazing around in the backyard, drinking something cool and refreshing and ostentatiously orange. It’s appropriate for such a blistering day, as are his shorts and worn Bowie tee, but that doesn’t stop Harry’s thoughts heading in less appropriate directions at the sight. Especially when Malfoy lifts the hem to wipe away the sweat beading on his face, exposing the toned expanse of his abdomen.

Harry stops on his way to the broom shed to stare and ask, “Is that my shirt?” It’s a familiar, faded thing, one of the few left behind in the back of Sirius’s closet.

Malfoy just replies breezily, “I think so. It’s laundry day. Want one?”

He throws over a can, which Harry catches easily as Malfoy’s shirt drapes down and he is no longer distracted. Harry doesn’t end up visiting the broomshed that afternoon. Instead, they spend the rest of the day idling and talking and drinking until the sun sets, hazy and somnolent behind Grimmauld.

Their confusing exchanges only worsen things for Harry. Malfoy is all he can think about now. Before, he only had trouble looking Malfoy in the eye because he knew what he sounds like when he’s getting off. But now Harry can’t help but look at Malfoy and like it. He likes the prat’s sleek sweep of moonlight hair. He likes the git’s pointy, aristocratic face. He likes the tosser’s slow, pointed drawl. The past few days force Harry to admit that Malfoy is unbearably attractive, and Harry doesn’t know what to do in the face of it.

The interactions throw him off enough to dispel any attempt to bring up volume control completely, even if Malfoy’s appreciative noises during dinner are the perfect segue into it. It’s perplexing and disarming and always leaves Harry dazed afterwards.

In the end, Saturday rolls around once more and it doesn’t get brought up at all. And if the thought of Malfoy lingers far longer than the sleeplessness he caused in the first place, then Harry only has himself to blame.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

At exactly 11:58 pm that Saturday night, as Harry’s Tempus states into the black of his room, Harry finds that he can indeed blame Malfoy—extensively and emphatically. He hasn’t seen Malfoy since the night before, having already left on whatever plans he had when Harry got up that morning. It’s a welcome interlude in the continuing trial of Harry’s newfound attraction, but it abandons him with too much opportunity to do nothing but mull over everything.

So long, in fact, that he is utterly tired of any more thoughts of Draco Malfoy by the time he gets to bed. Harry desperately wants to just go to sleep and not have to think about him anymore, but he can’t because, Merlin’s fucking tits, Malfoy’s got another bloke over again.

It’s unmistakable now; Malfoy’s moans sound heavy in the emptiness of Harry’s room. It’s a sweet, lilting thing, striking goosebumps on his skin at the dulcet tone.

If he has to hear them go for the rest of the night, Harry thinks he might just lose it. He hopes that he’ll at least be put out of his misery this time. Another night of this seems especially cruel with Harry’s recent realizations. Malfoy’s unique brand of torture would succeed in things Voldemort never could and finally end him for good. Maybe he’ll have some peace and quiet then.

A blessed silence ensues, and for a moment, he thinks he has been spared. But Malfoy’s voice punctures the silence as he moans suddenly: “ _Harry._ ”

Harry stops breathing.

Surely, he’s having an aneurysm of some sort and he did indeed die and this is some weird version of the afterlife that bypasses King’s Cross entirely, since he _couldn’t possibly have heard_ —but no. There it is again.

The abrupt shock of hearing Malfoy moaning his name is mind addling. He takes a second to recover. It doesn’t help much. He can clearly hear all the sounds coming from next door.

Everything is hazy and razor sharp all at the same time, a tidal wave of emotions and realizations and desires. Harry is drowning. Because Malfoy is saying his name, and Harry is struck with the fact that he must know. That there was no way Malfoy would be this loud, moaning Harry’s name, without knowing that Harry can hear him.

The deliberate nature of it is disorienting. Harry doesn’t know whether or not to be mad about it, but his arousal still hits him like a punch. He grips himself through his pyjama bottoms, already able to feel pre-come wetting the cotton of his pants. Even the knowledge that Malfoy isn’t alone next door is enough to tamp the hunger that arises every time Malfoy’s moaning voice carries over Harry’s name.

Maybe he likes being heard? Until now, Harry hasn’t considered the possibility that there could be some truth to Ginny’s joke. The possibility that Malfoy was an exhibitionist. That he wanted Harry to hear. The thought of that does strange things to Harry’s brain and goes straight to his cock.

“ _Harry. Harry._ ”

Malfoy’s voice around his name is whining and desperate, and Harry finally relents. Shucking off his pyjama bottoms and his pants in one, he wraps a hand around his erection and gives a slow, steady stroke. The relief is slaking after a week’s build up of voltaic tension, and Harry can’t help but give in to it.

“ _Fuck. Harry. Oh, yes, Harry._ ”

When Harry finally lets himself feel, he lets loose the floodgates holding back everything that he didn’t want to dwell on about Malfoy. Harry’s thoughts turn to long, elegant fingers trailing down the nape of his neck. An easy smile passed between wayward touches and half-lidded stares. The washboard melody of toned muscles beneath Harry’s hands, beneath the faded Bowie shirt he stole from Harry.

“ _Faster. Harder. Please. Harry._ ”

Harry cannot stop thinking about Malfoy—hasn’t been able to for weeks now—pumping faster and harder, and he knows that he is so hopelessly gone. Harry aches and wants with relentless fervor. It’s a fire that he cannot fly away from—that he _won’t_ fly away from—leaving him to burn bright and hot with Draco Malfoy.

“ _Harry. Give it to me. Yes, Harry. Yes._ ”

His thumb swipes over the head of his cock, and he bites back a groan into his other fist. It’s too easy to imagine that it’s him Malfoy is saying that to. That it’s him causing Malfoy to say his name like that. Easier still to watch it play out in his head, the plunging heat of Malfoy’s arse around his prick, as he drives himself ruthlessly against Malfoy’s prostate while Malfoy cries out for more and faster and _Harry_.

He wants it so badly, wishes Malfoy were under him now, writhing and gasping in pleasure. Harry’s fist is flying over his cock, eyes shut and head thrown wildly back. He is lost to the pleasure and Malfoy’s noises suggest the same.

He should be the one to make Malfoy make those sounds. Harry would play him like an instrument, pluck a reprise of choral moans with a hand on his arched back. And Malfoy would sing for him, accompanied by the slick sounds of Harry sliding deep and the chorus of their shared gasping breaths.

Malfoy is getting louder now and Harry is so close.

It would be beautiful and debaucherous to watch Malfoy fall apart, his picture perfect composure broken as he bites down on his bottom lip and lets go of his inhibitions. Harry can picture it clearly, glorious and free in its image. Malfoy on top of him, his chest rosy pink and nipples hard, ruddy cock bobbing while he fucks himself on Harry’s cock. Harry reaches out to stroke him, and it pushes Malfoy over the last edge of his control. He spills over Harry’s hand with a final drawn-out moan of Harry’s name.

And when Harry finishes with him, he rides the crest of his orgasm and spills onto the sheets, wishing it were inside Malfoy instead, with the faintest breath of, “ _Draco_.”

Then, it is quiet again, and Harry is spent, silent, and still. In the calm hush of the night, Harry slowly falls asleep to the sound of Draco’s voice echoing in his head, calling his name.

• ☽ ϟ ☾ •

Upon waking, Harry realizes immediately that he has slept in for the first Sunday in several weeks. The sun is already pouring in through the ornate curtains and his room looks almost unfamiliar bathed in the golden light. It’s enlightening in more ways than one. He laughs softly, looking up at the ceiling. Last night certainly cleared up any remainder of his reservations. _Draco_ , he thinks. _But tea first,_ Harry decides.

He once again begins the tedious journey to the kitchen. Grimmauld place has always been exceedingly large, and it’s one of the reasons he liked the idea of Draco living with him after eighth year, filling the too-empty house with a presence he’d become so accustomed to. With how the past week has been going, Harry has been grateful for the extra space that allowed him to avoid Draco easily—short-lived though it was. Six floors of hiding places are well worth it, but less so when four of them stand between him and a decent cup of caffeine. Of course he could always just Apparate there, but the walk down the steps helps to wake him up, and a moment to steel himself and gather his thoughts before seeing Draco is appreciated.

He wonders if he’s made a mistake, however, when he reaches the ground floor. Standing awkwardly at the foot of the landing, blocking both the foyer and the hallway to the next set of stairs, is the bloke who had to have been Draco’s latest attempt on Harry’s life. Harry slept so well, he had forgotten about the other man until he’s right in front of him. They really do need to stop meeting like this, he thinks, taking just a moment to mourn the morning cuppa that the bloke is firmly blocking him from reaching.

And he’s fit too, Harry notices, all dark hair and sprawling muscles. Then Harry recalls the night before and scowls. His mind goes to Draco’s voice crying out his name, and resolves not to think of the bloke as Harry #2 in his head, valiantly hoping that maybe ignoring him would make him disappear faster.

Draco enters the foyer just then, and Harry cannot help but stare. No amount of preparation could have ever prevented it. He is as hopeless as he was in sixth year.

“Potter,” Draco says as he spots the two. “I see you’ve met Harvey.”

The other bloke raises a hand, looking between them. “It’s Harry.”

“Is it?” Draco says nonchalantly, as though Harry didn’t hear it so clearly the night before that it still rings through his mind.

Harry leans against the railing and waits. His eyes trail Draco as he promptly herds the imposter out the front door with a cheerful salutation, fingers waggling. Harry hopes he trips on the troll leg on his way out. Draco closes the door and turns to face him. Harry holds his stare unflinchingly.

“This is really getting obnoxious, Draco.”

“Draco now, am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “I think I’ll stick to calling you Potter.”

“You had no reservations saying my name last night,” Harry says, determined.

Draco smiles, sharp and bright like a rapier parrying. “That’s awfully candid of you after a few weeks, Potter. And here I thought you just slept like the dead.”

Harry is unswayed. “I want to hear you say it.”

Draco laughs, “ _Weeks_. Merlin, you’re dense, Harry.”

Hearing it through a wall the previous night is nothing compared to having Draco say it to his face. It opens a chasm inside of Harry that threatens to swallow him whole. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and it's as though he’s suddenly been pulled underwater with the weight of his revelation confirmed.

He crosses the foyer to stand in front of Draco, gazes locked, an outstretched hand set out, bridging the gap between them. “Say it again.”

Eyelids fluttering shut as Harry’s fingers trail down his cheek, Draco whispers, “Harry.”

A single word, spoken with the barest of breaths, but it leaves Harry arrested. His name on Draco’s lips simultaneously holds only two syllables and the entirety of the history between them. The pad of Harry’s thumb presses down on Draco’s bottom lip, and his tongue darts out to wet it. No longer able to resist, Harry leans in to ghost his lips over his cheek, his jaw, further.

“Draco,” he whispers back against the hollow of his throat, and it speaks more than Harry ever thought it could.

Draco shivers, hands reaching up to card through Harry’s hair and pull him closer. When their lips finally touch, it has nothing of the hesitance that began their friendship and everything of the ferocity that they’d always thrown at each other. A kiss like a car crash, a right hook, a forest fire. And Harry thinks to himself that, _Yes, he will gladly throw himself onto the knife that is Draco Malfoy if it feels anything like this._

Reaching a hand under his shirt, Harry looks for more of Draco’s angles, wanting to see everything he hasn’t already. He wants it all. Every sharp breath, every shiver, every soft moan. He wants to see the full picture of his past week’s torment on full display for him, the sight of it reunited with the sounds he has heard.

“Bed,” Draco breathes out. “Now.”

Fuck it, Harry promptly decides, skipping past what would have been a stumbling walk up three flights of stairs and instead Apparating them directly to his room. They land halfway upright before they’re tipping onto his bed in a sprawl of limbs and wet lips and teeth. Harry can’t tell which way is up.

All he knows is the feel of Draco’s tongue sliding against his, Draco’s legs straddling his lap, and the hot, hard press of Draco’s erection against his stomach. Harry drops his head to lick and nip and suck at the curve of Draco’s neck.

And when Draco, head falling bonelessly on Harry’s shoulder, moans his name, it’s finally, _finally_ , on the right side of the walls.

Harry groans at the sound. “Do you know what you’ve been doing to me the past few weeks?” A hand gripping pale blond hair tight, he tilts Draco’s head to look up at him and waits for an answer.

Draco only whines, grinding his hips in a way that makes Harry hiss.

“You’re a bloody fucking tease, Malfoy,” he growls, flipping them over and tugging off shirts and wrestling with zippers until it’s blissfully only skin on skin left.

Harry marvels at Draco spread out on his sheets. His hair is a white halo framing his flushed face, an angel debauched. And with the way he tempts Harry, probably Lucifer himself. Draco smiles up at him like he knows it.

“You’ve been driving me insane bringing those blokes over. With all those noises you make,” Harry says, reaching for Draco’s cock and giving it a slow stroke. Draco’s breath hitches. “You couldn’t just ask me out, could you? You really had to torture me first.” Harry huffs out a laugh. “Do you get off on being a prat or were you so unsure I’d reciprocate?”

Draco turns away slightly, eyes sparking, but his blush is hot on his cheeks. “You’re the— _ahh_ —Gryffindor. Took you long enough to notice.” He struggles to hold a lofty glare as Harry works him languidly, and Harry finds it incredibly endearing.

“Or did you just like knowing I could hear everything?” Harry asks as Draco arches off the sheets, gasping softly. “That I was just on the other side of a wall, listening to every single sound you made?”

“No,” Draco lies, but it’s unconvincing as he writhes.

Harry rubs the head of Draco’s cock, thumbing the slit. Beads of pre-come make it slick and he swipes a taste onto his tongue before continuing his tease. “Gonna put on a show for me then? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Draco?”

Draco nods then, still not able to look him in the eye as his incisors bite down on his bottom lip, but Harry isn’t having any of it anymore. He doesn’t want Draco’s silence.

“I want to hear you say it.” Harry leans down further, Draco’s erection inches in front of his face as he wanks him, letting out a hot breath close enough for him to feel it.

Draco moans first, a low, pleading sound, before he breathes out, “Yes. Yes, Harry. _Please_.”

With a smile, Harry relents, licking a stripe up Draco’s shaft then mouthing at the head. It’s so much better tasting it directly. Draco’s pre-come on his tongue is salty, but not at all unpleasant. Harry loves the taste.

Draco keens as Harry starts to work him into his mouth slowly, lips sliding down his cock. He intends to make this last, to hear as many sounds as he can have Draco make until Draco can no longer speak in words.

“Harry, _fuck_.” Draco groans loudly now, fingers tangling into Harry’s already messed up hair. It’s a bit sharp and tugs a little at his scalp, but it makes Harry hum around Draco’s shaft and take it deeper down his throat.

As he learns the art of taking Draco apart, Harry finds that Draco is wonderfully responsive. Harry loves having Draco’s cock in his mouth, loves the feel of it on his tongue, but Draco’s enthusiastic reactions are better than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s very vocal about his approval, loud and eager in his pleasure.

This time, it’s Harry’s name he is actually moaning, not the counterfeit replica of last night—but only _Harry’s_ , and for Harry alone. He watches Draco become a mess under him and the rush of power it gives him is potent, settling heavy in his groin, his cock hard and leaking, untouched, against the sheets. Harry gets off just knowing he’s the one able to do this to Draco. He revels in it, bobbing his head faster.

“Harry. Harry— _nngh_ —I’m going to come.” A sharp tug on his hair punctuates Draco’s warning, before he spills himself down Harry’s throat with a gasp. He swallows it all down, suckling gently on Draco’s spent cock until he cries out, too sensitive to take any more.

Laughing softly, Harry climbs his way back up the bed to capture Draco’s lips in an openmouthed kiss, the taste of Draco’s come passing between sharp bites of teeth and swirling tongues. It’s slower this time, unhurried but engulfing, the sinking sweetness of treacle. Harry falls steadily into the feeling of kissing him, running his hands everywhere he can touch.

“Wha—” Harry starts as their kiss is suddenly broken, but he’s cut off by Draco grappling around for his wand, still tucked into the pocket of his jeans discarded on the floor. With an arching swoop, he casts a wordless Accio. A glass bottle of shimmering liquid hurls through the air and into his waiting palm.

Harry stares at the familiar bottle for a moment while Draco sits up and unstoppers it, pooling some of the viscous liquid onto his fingers.

“Is that—?” His eyes dart up to Draco’s shooting him an incredulous look. “Your regular order at Luna’s is _lube_?” Harry is groaning. He thinks of the looks that Luna and Ginny gave him last week, and it all clicks into place. “You had me pick up lube. Luna and Ginny know you had me pick up your lube.” Harry smacks a hand on Draco’s thigh, but it has no real force behind it. “You prat!”

Draco is laughing at him. It’s loud and hearty like his moans, and just as pleasant to Harry’s ears. Lube is spilling from his fingers onto the bed, but neither of them pays it any notice.

“Is what she gave me lube too?” Harry asks, resigned to their antics.

“No, Harry,” Draco speaks between his laughter. “Yours is just an essential oil. Luna would have told you that it was external use only. You’re supposed to rub it on your temples.” He takes his lube coated hand and demonstrates the procedure on Harry’s face. Harry futilely tries to smack it away with an indignant cry.

Draco looks deeply amused, and Harry wishes he could actually be annoyed at the wanker, but he can’t help the rush of warmth at the sight of Draco’s wide, unguarded smile. Harry wants to swallow it down. So he does, along with every little sound he makes afterwards, pushing Draco back down onto the bed.

The lube is put to good use, Harry slicking up a finger before running it down Draco’s crease to circle around his rim. He presses lightly at first, listening to the way Draco takes a sharp inhale at the feeling, raising his hips up slightly and parting his legs wider for Harry. His other hand reaches down to cup a firm arse cheek, squeezing before he trails it back up.

Harry presses his finger harder on Draco’s rim until the puckered ring lets in a knuckle, then two. The intrusion makes Draco gasp as though it’s a surprise. It’s hot and tight around him, and Harry groans at the thought of his cock sinking deep into that heat. Harry opens him up slowly, adding another finger, until he is gaping and wet and wanting, his panted breaths reserved only for pleading.

Harry kisses up Draco’s chest as he fingers him, taking care to run his lips softly over the scars that litter his skin. He presses his apologies against the raised silver marks and finds absolution in the way Draco breathes out his name.

“Harry, _please_. I need—” Draco sobs, and Harry gives it to him.

His fingers brush up on the tight knot of Draco’s prostate and a sharp wail leaves Draco’s lips. Twisting his hand to angle it deeper, Harry rubs against it over and over, watching the way Draco falls apart as Harry’s fingers slide in and out of his arse.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, unable to look away. Draco’s flush is decadent, a fine aged merlot in a carved crystal glass. Harry drinks his fill greedily.

When he’s loose enough, Harry summons back the glass bottle of lube from wherever it had fallen, and slicks up his cock. With a hand holding up one of Draco’s legs from behind his knee, Harry lines himself up, rubbing the head of his erection along the enticing curve of Draco’s crease.

“Okay?” He asks, looking Draco in the eye and relishing the slight squirm he makes every time he knows Harry’s watching.

“Okay.” Draco nods, not turning away anymore. “Yes. Very okay. Get on with it now, please.”

“Bossy,” Harry chides playfully. “Not for long, though. I’ll have you screaming for me this time, Malfoy.”

Draco only raises an eyebrow, aristocratic arrogance slipping on as easily as a silk glove. “Is that a threat, Potter?”

Harry grins. “A promise,” he says, pushing in.

He keeps it slow at first, wanting to give Draco time to adjust before he’s seated fully. Draco moans, long and low at the feeling. Harry watches, mesmerized, as that tight heat takes all of him inside, stretching beautifully around his cock.

With Draco’s leg still bent beneath his hand, Harry leans down until he’s over top of him and they’re face to face, before he pulls out and thrusts all the way back in. It doesn’t take Draco very long at all until his cries are increasing in volume with every sharp snap of Harry’s hips.

“Draco,” Harry groans, dropping his head into the crook of Draco’s neck to suck a line of bruises onto the delicate skin. Long fingers rake through Harry's hair and hold tight. “You feel so fucking good.” For a moment, he has to clench his eyes shut, eyelids softly fluttering closed against skin, the feel of Draco around him blinding in its pleasure.

“Fuck. Harry— _nngh_ —” He arches up, chest pressing firm against Harry’s, and breathes out into Harry’s ear, “ _fuck me harder_.”

Harry makes good on his promise. Draco is so loud, Harry thinks that you could probably hear them from outside. He isn’t at all put off by the thought, the idea of others hearing the sounds Draco makes for him at least a little tempting. Draco might make an exhibitionist of him yet.

Harry learns that Draco can be quiet too, little shuddering gasps and cut-off breaths and he loves it just as much as when he’s loud. Draco is sitting on Harry’s cock now, sweat-slick and wine spattered, a dark blooming trail of love bites leading down his neck. Harry’s hands grip his hips, pulling him down to meet each of his thrusts.

They fill the room with the lewd sounds of skin on skin as he fucks Draco until he’s a babbling mess, speaking solely in moans and whines and cries of Harry’s name. A few ‘Potters’ slip out too, but Harry only wants it all even more, the reminder that this is them—Potter, Malfoy, _Harry, Draco._

Draco’s head tips back, lips parted, as Harry fists his cock, pumping hard and fast. “Are you gonna come for me, Draco?” He asks, feeling his own orgasm on the horizon.

Draco looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes, trying to fuck himself harder on Harry’s cock. “Ahh, yes. Gonna come.”

“For who?” Harry slows down his wanking, his other hand on Draco’s hip keeping him still. “You’re coming for who?”

A frustrated sound escapes him, before, “ _You._ Fuck, _Harry_ , gonna come for you—Potter, please.”

“Yeah,” Harry croons, fisting Draco’s cock faster and angling his hips to hit that sweet spot inside him. “Come for me, then, Draco.”

Draco moans a steady stream of Harry’s name as he’s coming thick stripes over Harry’s fist, some of it hitting him in the chest. Harry joins him not long after, thrusting once, twice, before emptying himself into Draco’s arse with a groan.

They still after a few slow lingering thrusts, and with Harry still inside him, Draco cleans them both off with a wordless spell, then flops down beside him to lay his head on Harry’s chest.

“Can I ask you on that date now?” Harry asks, a hand stroking through his hair.

“Hm,” Draco says, considering, his elegant fingers trailing over Harry’s scars. “I’ll have to check my schedule. Perhaps if I can fit you in between Saturday brunch and your pub night.”

“Come to pub night, then,” Harry says seriously, knowing Draco’s only kidding, and meaning it anyway. “But go out with me too.” He reaches for Draco’s hand.

Draco laces their fingers together. “Alright then, but you better take me somewhere nice.”

“Oh, of course,” Harry replies. “A fine establishment to suit a wizard of your caliber, naturally.”

“Does this mean you’ll be coming to the next Gay Brunch?” Draco asks, lifting his head off Harry’s chest and leaning on an elbow to look down at him.

Harry bites his lip to stifle commenting on his use of Harry’s preferred term for his Saturday plans, before answering, “only if you dance with me at the club.”

Eyes lighting up, Draco grins. “Are you saying you can dance, Potter?”

Harry pulls him down to give him a soft kiss, smiling against his lips. “I’m willing to suffer through it for you, Malfoy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, do consider checking me out on [Tumblr!](https://kryptidfoxwrites.tumblr.com)
> 
> The digital art included in this fic is made by me, you can view Harry and Draco on the couch [here,](https://kryptidfox.tumblr.com/post/645383920405397504/a-scene-from-my-new-fic-if-somebodys-there-then) and their morning mugs of tea [here.](https://kryptidfox.tumblr.com/post/644393909485813760/the-days-when-malfoy-is-up-before-harry-malfoy) The gif version of the mugs can appear a little wonky in mobile browsers on AO3, so you can view it properly there!


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